"You drunken cur!" said Herries. He had instinctively allowed Louise to withdraw her arm; now he stood irresolute, uncertain how she would wish him to act. She had gone very pale; he believed she was afraid. "Isn't there a droschke anywhere?" he said, and looked angrily round. "I really can't see you exposed to this ... this sort of thing, you know."
Louise answered hurriedly. "No, no. And please go! I shall be all right. I'm sorry.—I had enjoyed it so much. I will tell you another time, how much. Good night, and thank you. No ... PLEASE!> ... yes, a delightful evening." Her words were almost inaudible.
"Delightful indeed!" said Herries with warmth. Then he stood aside, raised his hat, and let them pass.
Maurice had his hand on her wrist, and he dragged her after him, over the frozen pavements, far more quickly than she could in comfort go, hampered as she was by snow-boots and by her heavy cloak. But she followed him, allowed herself to be drawn, without protest. She felt strangely will-less. Only sometimes, when the thought of the indignity he had laid upon her came over her anew, did she whisper: "How dare you! ... oh, how dare you!"
He did not look at her, or answer her, and all might have gone well, so oddly did this treatment affect her, had he only persisted in it. But the mere contact of her hand softened him towards her; her nearness worked on him as it never failed to do. He was exhausted, too, mentally and physically, and at the thought that, for this night at least, his sufferings were over, he could have shed tears of relief. Slackening his pace, he began to speak, began to excuse and exculpate himself before ever she had blamed him, endeavouring to make her understand something of what he had gone through. In advance, and before she had expressed it, he sought to break down her spirit of animosity.
The longer he spoke, the harder she felt herself grow. He was at it again, back at his eternal self-justification. Oh, why, for this one evening at least, could he not have enforced his will, and have made her do what he wished, without explanation! But the one plain, simple way was the only way he never thought of taking. "I hate you and despise you! I shall never forgive you for your behaviour to-night!—never!" And now it was she who pressed forward, to get away from him.
He turned the key in the house-door. But before he could open the door, Louise, pushing in front of him, threw it back, entered the house, and, the next moment, the door banged in his face. He had just time to withdraw his hand. He heard her steps on the stair, mounting, growing fainter; he heard the door above open and shut.
For a second or two, he stood listening to these sounds. But when it dawned on him that she had shut him out, he pressed both hands against the wood of the heavy door, and tried to shake it open. He even beat his fist against it, and only desisted from this when his knuckles began to smart.
Then, on looking down, he saw that the key was still in the lock. He stared at it, stupidly, without understanding. But, yes—it was his own key; he himself had put it in. He took it out again, and holding it in his hand, looked at it, after the fashion of a drunken man, who does not recognise the object he holds. And even while he did this, he burst into a peal of laughter, which made him lean for support against the wall of the house. The noise he made sounded idiotic, sounded mad, in the quiet street; but he was unable to contain himself. She had left him the key—had left the key! Oh, what a fool he was!
His laughter died away. He opened the door, noiselessly, as he had learned by practice to do, and as noiselessly entered the vestibule and went up the stairs.